


On the Other Side of Mercy

by empress9



Series: Impressions [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Cor Centric, Gen, Hurt Cor Leonis, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Medical Procedures, Whump, Young Cor Leonis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27352465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empress9/pseuds/empress9
Summary: Gods. He knows his base is miles off. Wasn’t supposed to get this far away either, but he got carried away. Stranded in Niflheim, off on some fucking recon mission gone to shit. No, he won’t die here. He’s immortal.Cor, wounded and sheltered in Niflheim, begins to reflect on the reasons he's still alive.
Relationships: Cor Leonis & Regis Lucis Caelum
Series: Impressions [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997575
Comments: 27
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part II of my Cor series ^u^
> 
> I'm beginning to like these little introspective looks into his character, so you can expect more of that here!
> 
> No need to read the first part of the series, but be warned for some graphic content 
> 
> Enjoy!

Briefly, Cor’s breath fogs his view, warmth in the biting cold; but just a second, he’s at the stage where all he can produce are strangled gasps. The fight’s gone on too long already.

Cor swings his body sideways, angling against the blow coming his way. There’s an MT charging at his front, and a remaining enemy flanking. A kick to the third (another Magitek trooper, taken care of) at his feet and he shoves backwards.

His sword catches the enemy’s armored wrist before it can slam into his face; he’d disarmed the second MT thankfully, a slash to its pistol splitting it on two. The thing could still fight though.

Bracing against the sudden weight, Cor releases another half-breath and lunges into the MT. The part of him that always knows what to do (the voice of a warrior inside him, maybe) screams out a warning: the remaining enemy at his side, now preparing a blow of his own. Cor registers it though. Swings. Pivots. The MT grappled in his hold. He uses it to shield against the other Nif’s onslaught.

This one’s got a cloud of breath around him too. Human then.

Seemingly hesitant to bring his weapon down on a fellow comrade (mechanical or not), the Nif stutters, just for a second, but it’s what Cor needs. The voice in him a constant _go, go now, now or never…_

Adrenaline scorches through him, that burst that makes him yell aloud as he slashes his blade at the opening in the Nif’s defense. The man falters as Cor slams into him, full weight behind his sword now.

Mindful of the remaining MT at his back now, Cor thrusts against the human opponent, who’s stumbling as he brings his own sword up at a shaky angle. The voice in Cor’s head translating _he’s not proficient with a blade, use that, break him._

Sometimes he hates it. The voice. But it’s what’s kept him alive so far.

And he wants to live.

But if he’s learned anything than it’s this: it’s all just give and take. Like now, how his chest feels like fire, each breath like hot coal constricting his throat (he hates long fights), but he has to keep going.

The Nif gives; that tiny second where his grip falters on the already unsteady sword. Cor presses forward, steps his whole body into it. A thrust forward and he pushes his own sword through.

Straight into the Nif’s abdomen. The fog of breath around him now shapes around a shriek. But Cor’s not listening. No, he’s steeling for the blow at his side he knows is coming.

He takes; the MT, not forgotten at his back, slams an arm into his ribs, cracking, and the boy has to flinch sideways, pulling his sword out of the human opponent as he withdraws to defend his side.

Choking on the bitter air, Cor takes just the second he needs to pause (the world slows, frozen solid, he steadies himself, he has to; _this is how you live, if you want to_ ).

He moves.

It’s quick, and calculated. And he knows what he’ll take from it, but that’s just the cost.

Deciding the MT is more of a threat, Cor turns to it. Eyes fast, looking for that weak point, the sure-fire way to get the fucker to switch off: a stab through the chest cavity in just the right spot. He’s risked too much by deliberating so he trusts his instincts as he turns from the human, surging into the MT with his sword.

It plunges into hot metal and Cor has to stand his ground, flinching as whatever passes for the MT’s blood starts burning his exposed wrist. He can take it though. He’s already itching for the blowback he knows is coming.

A loud shot. That surprises him a bit.

But then he feels it. The lighting strike in his upper thigh and he curses as he feels his left leg slacken. Cor slips on the now slain MT, his sword still gripped tightly as it’s pulled from the chest plate. He doesn’t fall, no. Despite the sharp, biting ache from his thigh. He turns to face the human.

Fucker was a gunman then. Fine.

There’s a look of shock in the guy’s visible features. Cor kinda hates how he can sometimes see through Nifs’ helmets, but not now. He uses the man’s stupefaction to his advantage.

It’s clear the man was hoping his two MT buddies would take care of business. Wrong.

He may be miles from home (let it be known that Cor would never recommend Vogliupe as a vacation hotspot to even his most unsavory enemies), but the boy didn’t earn his gosdamn nickname for nothing.

He knows he’ll live. It’s not just the high from the adrenaline kick singing in his blood. No. He’ll live. He _knows_ it. Immortal or not. 

That voice when he fights (fuck it, he loves it, he _needs it_ ), it pushes him forward. Even when his limbs start to lock and every aspect of reason points to him passing out from exhaustion. He moves forward.

The eyes behind that damn Nif helmet. Shiny. Afraid. Cor narrows his sight on them as he makes his move.

It gives; the pistol still caught in amateur hands forgets to aim, a wide shot somewhere lost in all this fucking snow. Cor steps close, too close but it doesn’t fucking matter anymore. He’s ending this. The human blinks, cries; more fog around his face. It doesn’t obscure too much of the view though, as Cor brings his sword across the Nif’s throat. Blood; red, warm, spilling out in an instant.

(The voice in him sings _yes, yes, yes!_ and that’s why he hates it, after all.)

But it doesn’t call out the warning as it happens.

The human Nif shifts (gods he’s close, too close dammit) and there’s a twist upward.

Cor takes; the hidden knife, fixed in the Nif’s right hand. A final fuck you to his slayer. Cor stares down, almost bemused.

There's no pain at first, just an exhale. Adrenaline still holding him in its electric grasp. 

They both stand, each holding the other maybe, if nothing else. Hot breaths clouding the godsforaken Vogliupe air. Two humans.

The Nif slips first. Collapsing backwards as Cor just lets him go, hands already slick with hot crimson.

He blinks.

The knife’s still in his side, as he feels the slow drain of the last of his energy start to seep away along with his blood. He knows if he pulls it now, he’s done. Or he should be. But the voice interposes. 

_No. You won’t die. You won’t. (You hear me Cor, you’re not allowed to die!)_

Cor hates just about everything right now; from the cruel stinging of the bullet still in his thigh, the cold edge of the blade peeking out of his coat, his skin (he still can't feel it). He channels his hatred into willing his hand up, fingers stroking the hilt of the fucking dagger.

(Maybe that’s just it; _you hate to lose don’t you. You’ll be immortal yet…_ )

The boy screams as he pulls the blade from his body. He falls, crashing onto knees in the snow. The jolt in his thigh sending him further, face first, arm cradling his wounded side as he watches red flow into white. His blood makes a fog too. But his eyes are already blurry, losing focus. 

_No. You can’t_. He doesn’t close them. No, he squints hard and fast, savoring the rush in his head. He screams again, just for good measure.

Then he moves.

Crouched on all fours (well threes; his right arm pressed to his left side, holding him all together), he crawls forward.

He hates it. _Gods_ he hates it.

That voice is there though. And it won’t fucking shut up, so he does what he has to. Gripping his hair with his bloody hand, he growls, pulls his vision back into focus. Panting, making animal noises, he grinds his face briefly into the snow before making up his mind. 

Sharp pain overwhelms him, but Cor has to move forward. He manages to climb to his feet, unsteady as the left leg becomes next to useless. But he makes a step. And a second.

Gods. He knows his base is miles off. Wasn’t supposed to get this far away either, but he got carried away. Stranded in Niflheim, off on some fucking recon mission gone to shit. No, he won’t die here. _He’s immortal._

One foot in front of the other. The right presses on, harder, the left barely a step at all. Give. Take.

Give. Take.

He’d take it all.

And that’s why he’ll live.

Moaning as he drives his hand to press harder into the wound, Cor takes a look at his surroundings. Middle of fucking nowhere, of course. But he knows there’s a town a few miles to the south. He wouldn’t make it like this. But what else can he do?

He takes a moment to pause, each inhalation little more than choked rasps. Turning his head (gods, he’s dizzy, _focus_ ), he sees the steaming body of the Nif just paces away. No reason to expect a patrol out here in the sticks but fuck, they found a way to cross paths.

Cor’s too busy keeping his blood from spilling to start kicking himself for his lack of foresight.

He retracts his hand a bit, peels his coat and the sweater underneath just to get a look at the damage.

Fuck.

The trace of the knife carved a long slash along his left torso, ending in a deeper wound just above his belly (yeah he’d kick himself to death for all this lack of foresight later).

Now, he just tears along part of the sweater to get something to tie it off. It’s bleeding steady and he’s worried about more than just the trail he’ll leave.

It’s moments like these that Cor regrets his own stubborn nature. Tying off his wound on his chest, then his leg, he clutches his sword in his grasp as he feels the tingle of magic. It’s something he’s never quite gotten used to (and he doesn’t know if he ever wants to).

The flicker of the enchantment chills his fingertips; then his sword is gone. Locked in his own little armory. The one he only keeps two things in. Because he’s too fucking stubborn.

Couldn’t have stored a medical kit, eh? (He’d kick himself later, yeah).

The cold air seems to carry him forward. It bites his exposed skin and at some point it feels worse than the two injuries he’d sustained. Cor knows that’s not a good sign, but he’s hardly concentrated on that.

His body feels numb, but he manages to press on. He’ll never quite become accustomed to being injured. Despite the numerous occasions he’s found himself on the receiving end. He starts to disassociate usually. Like now; he can’t quite grasp that it’s himself he’s pushing forward (in his mind he pictures pulling along an empty shell that kinda looks like him), and there are usually voices that he can’t quite reach out to. Like his mother calling his name (why the fuck is his mom in Niflheim?). Or Regis; his words obscured as if spoken backwards (what are you saying? I can’t hear you…). Weird stuff that only exists in moments like these. Cor can’t begin to explain.

But he starts slipping. Losing himself. It’s just pain, pain, pain and footsteps in the snow. Drops of red every now and then. More pain. More snow.

His mind drags his shell slower, slower. Then he can’t feel it anymore.

Cor collapses into a snowbank.

He feels his body deflate, sinking into the snow with abandon. He’s lost it. It’s cold, getting darker. And in this moment he’s probably the closest to death he’s ever been (not true, but he isn’t thinking that).

The voice in his head that saves him is silent (no, there’s a fucked up version now and the only thing it’s saying is _make a snow angel_ so he really can’t go by that).

Pulling his body in closer, Cor just pants. His breath is hardly hot anymore, but he feels warmth. And he slips further, the riptide pulling him out, darkness like oil spilling in his mind.

He won’t die (there’s still that persistent hope), no. Not like this. Not here in the snow. In Niflheim. _He won’t die._ No this won’t be it, his final impression on this earth engrained into the snow (some fucked up snow angel).

(Maybe it’s because he’s felt it before; emptiness, nothing. He’s terrified of it. The silence. The lack of voice. _That’s why he lives now, why he keeps going. He doesn’t want to die. Not again_ ).

Regardless, he knows he’s close. That taste of mortality. He can feel it at the back of his throat (an empty scream), where the scent of his own blood threatens to lull him into eternal submission.

But he can’t move (can’t even make that snow angel if he wanted to).

So he lays there.

Spills his blood. Holds on.

He lays there until he can’t feel his fingers, still clutched to the blood-stained sweater. He lays til he starts to make sense of his fucked up delusions. Til he thinks he can translate what Regis whispers in his ears _you’ll be ok, I promise, I’ve got you kid, you’re gonna be ok_ … _you’re not allowed to die._

He lays til all he has to keep alive is that faint alien spark of a magic that isn’t his.

He lays there until the warm hands cup his face and search his body, til he’s pulled, dragged, taken into a warm place.

He doesn’t register it. But he knows he isn’t dead.

No, Cor’s not allowed to die. Regis told him so. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's up, flashbacks will be in italics :))
> 
> More Cor pain, sorry boy
> 
> Enjoy!

_-_

_After, in the diner, Cor doesn’t talk much._

_They all don’t; not until Regis perks up looking at the menu and decides they’re all getting milkshakes. Cor doesn’t mind. He wants a chocolate one. Doesn’t even have to say it aloud before Regis makes the order._

_He’s cold; hair and clothes still damp and he’s worried he’ll leave a mark on the chair. But Regis is wet too. And the hand that’s been brushing fingers over his knuckles for the past half hour is a steady focal point to keep him distracted._

_They’re all not saying it; that choked, corrupt thing that almost (did) happen. Weskham keeps his eyes trained on the boy though, afraid to blink and make him disappear maybe. Clarus is on Cor’s right side, a barrier holding him up. Protecting him still. And Cid just keeps flicking his hands about, no cigarette to keep them occupied, just scattered uneasiness._

_Cor’s glad when his milkshake comes._

_But not when the server places a wrapped toy next to his food, a phony smile as he intones “This one’s for the kid’s meal.”_

_There’s a wrenching silence._

_Regis slowly retracts his fingers from Cor’s hand, reaches for the package, then chuckles._

_It’s a small, subdued amusement. But it grows. And then Cor feels Clarus at his side start to tremor. Stifled laughter, but his body betrays him._

_It’s when Wes lets out a pitiful hoot that Cor cracks. His smile (still a bit crooked from that fucking injury) gets the better of him. A minor chuckle escapes._

_And then Regis is tearing apart the toy, and when the prize is revealed, the hilarity just grows. It’s a little figurine of some kiddy cartoon character._ Duscae Dan _. Cor can’t help it as he bursts out laughing._

_Twisting the damn thing in his hands, hopping it about the table, the young Prince does a pitiful little impersonation of a Duscaen accent and that’s enough to send them all over the edge._

_“C’mere lemme see it.” Clarus has to wipe tears from his eye (the second time that day, Cor recalls), as he reaches for the fucking toy. He does the stupidest bit, placing the figure on a bottle of ketchup, hollering as he mimes it rocking around like a wild chocobo, and Cor has to wipe tears from his own eyes. It’s not even funny. But it’s the most he’s ever laughed, probably in his whole life (fourteen years, who’s counting?)._

_He’s so caught up in this moment; watching as Cid takes a turn and does a godsdamn spot-on impression of Duscae Dan as he chides the young Prince to eat all his vegetables; Wes has his head on the table, so lost in the fucking stupidity of it all; Clarus talking with food in his mouth about how he’d once owned pajamas featuring the character in question (“You still do!” cries Regis “Let Cor borrow them when we get home, eh?”); the feel of his clothes, still damp, but he’s warmer now; Regis’s hand back on his own, tight, enduring, never letting go._

_He never wants to forget this (doesn’t let himself c_ _onsider that he almost never got to live it; an hour prior and he was quite decidedly_ dead _, but he isn’t thinking that now)._

_No, he’s thinking how Regis’s impression of Duscae Dan is about the worst thing he’s ever heard and he tells him as much and the Prince pulls him into an arm-hold daring him to do better and they all nearly wet themselves as Cor conjures up some godsforsaken parody of Regis’s accent, and he thinks, in this moment, that he’s very glad to be alive._

_-_

Cor’s not even fully awake, but he feels danger. The voice in his head is back and it’s forcing him to curl an arm around his middle; there’s fire in his chest. A cruel, evil burning that seems to get worse and worse in waves.

And someone’s trying to poke at it.

“Mmn.. no… don’t” His voice sounds far away.

There’s a reply, a pull to his arm.

“Mnnaah… stop… _don’t!_ ”

“Move your arm, boy. Let me get a look.”

The voice isn’t one he recognizes and that alarms him further. It’s enough to drive him to open his eyes, but it takes more than a minute for him to make anything out.

The warm hand tugs at his arm again, tries to nudge him further onto his side. Cor jolts in retaliation, trying to back away from this mystery assailant, but it just sends a shock down his side.

A low animal growl escapes his lips as he desperately tries to curl in on himself, holding the pain in the white-hot pocket inside his chest.

“Kid. I’m trying to help you. Just let me try, would you?”

It’s a female voice, he realizes. Something about that eases him a bit. But he doesn’t uncoil from his position. He’s lying on a hard surface; a wood floor, but there’s a thin blanket beneath him.

Cor blinks hard, trying to wipe the flashing darkness out of his eyes.

The face in front of him is unfamiliar too. A middle aged woman; streaks of gray spilling out of a messy, dark-blonde braid. Her eyes are sharp though, bird-like. And the grip that she’s got on his arm is firm enough to dislodge his defense.

“I’m not trying to hurt you, kid. Just hold still.” Her accent should’ve tipped him off. Lilting vowels and hard t’s. _Nifeli_.

Cor tries to back up further again, to escape.

But the strange woman’s hold is surprisingly strong as she forces him onto his back and begins tugging at his sweater.

“No… please…” Cor hates how weak he sounds. He tries to wrench the fabric out of her grasp but ends up scraping the fibers along his wound, pulling apart the skin that had been caught with drying blood and _gods_ … he screams. It fucking _hurts_ and he’s back to blinking out the blackness.

“ _Fucking hell_ …” It’s a harsh whisper followed by warm hands now exposing his chest. The sweater is pulled up to his collar and Cor’s head lies limply on the hard wood.

He’s still too shocked to function.

“Ahh… godammit.” The woman almost sounds sorry. “What happened to you, kid?”

Cor doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he tosses her another growl.

“Don’t bite the hand helping you now, son. I could’ve left you there in the snow.”

The part of Cor that tries to be rational in fucked-up situations reaches him just enough to start piecing things together: Snow. Niflheim. The fucking patrol unit. Stab wound to the chest. Bullet in his thigh. And a strange Nifeli woman with firm hands supposedly offering to take care of him.

He’s still a little fucked in the head to find a way out of this (give him some time, astrals’ sake).

“You get lost out there or something? It’s quite dangerous out in these parts, boy. I should know.” The woman says as she begins shuffling with something at her side. Cor can’t quite lift his head enough to get a better view. He’s pretty much deadweight on the floor.

The rational side of him holds out a scant hope: _maybe she doesn’t know what happened, maybe she doesn’t know where he’s from, what he is. An invader_. Cor just focuses on his breathing. Slow and steady. But each one is carved by acid in his chest.

“Was an accident…” is all Cor relays. And it’s mostly true.

“Hah!” An honest laugh. “What’s your name boy?”

Cor just moans.

“Sure.”

The hands are back on his skin and he has to bite his lip hard to keep from yelping. The touch is gentle though, followed by another whispered curse.

“What were you doing out there?” the woman asks.

The boy closes his eyes, breathes out harshly. Maybe if he just says nothing, she won’t find out who he is.

More nudging at his wound. Then a tug on his jeans; ah, fuck, he’d forgotten about the bullet in his leg. Can’t really feel anything below the waist anyway which should concern him. But he’s too caught up in the liquid fire that seems to be running up and down his torso.

“Can’t talk, huh? Did your tongue freeze off in the cold?”

Still, he says nothing. Stares behind eyelids at the warm light that glows through them. Rides his waves of pain just so he doesn’t drown (not again).

“You don’t have to worry. I’m not gonna turn you in, Sleepless boy.”

So that settles it, then. Guess his cover’s blown. Cor doesn’t know what singles him out as a citizen of Insomnia (his civilian clothes are nondescript enough but it might just be something in his person that he can’t hide, like how he hears the woman’s nationality in her harsh words, her firm hands). 

“How can I be sure?” he croaks, voice betraying more than he’d like.

“Like I said. Could’ve left you there in the snow.” She rummages again, leaving for just a second and returning with some more tools.

Cor keeps his head centered on the wooden floor. Doesn’t bother trying to bring his hand up to his exposed chest, but he fingers the thin blanket that the woman had presumably laid him out on. The material feels like wool, coarse on his fingertips. It almost distracts him as the stranger starts probing his skin again. 

“You’re a soldier.”

It’s not a question, but for some reason Cor decides to slightly nod his head. Eyes still closed. But he knows what the woman is seeing. Knows what his mutilated chest looks like.

“These scars from the war?” she murmurs. And light fingers brush his skin. He tries his hardest not to flinch.

“Not all.” He doesn’t know why he answers. There’s something about this moment that’s caught him off guard. He’s a little disturbed to say he feels a bit… safe. Warm.

She doesn’t press him further but for some reason, Cor decides to continue.

“Drowning doesn’t leave scars you can see.”

She falls silent, the hands still for a moment.

Then she brushes something along the skin next to his wound, and he has to clench hard, teeth grinding in his crooked jaw.

“How old are you?”

“Almost nineteen.” Well, in three months, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Ok,” is all she says, and then she pulls back. Cor’s eyes are still closed, but he feels her closeness. He breaths harder, catches a bit of a smoky scent. Wood. Earth. Coldness. So this is Niflheim.

“This is gonna hurt. I’m sorry. Gotta get it cleaned.” To her credit, she sounds remorseful. It still doesn’t help Cor prepare himself as she dumps antiseptic over his exposed chest.

He’s lost in time for a bit. He knows he’d made a noise, feels his head crash hard onto the wood. Back arching, feet digging up the measly blanket as he writhes.

“Steady kid.”

Panting, gasping, Cor pulls the fabric hard in his grip. Blinking back tears as he calls himself back into focus… _you’ll be ok, I promise_. That voice that he didn’t even search for. The hands that might’ve brushed his own to calm him down. The owner isn’t here, but he feels him still. Maybe in the flash of magic that’s brought to the surface every time he feels like screaming.

He doesn’t scream now, though. Bites his lip bloody to keep it together.

“Shh… Hold tight now. I’m gonna need to sew this up.”

It’s excruciating. Every second a flicker of a lifetime. Pain so strong his lip isn’t enough to barricade his anguish. 

The Nifeli woman brings a needle through his stab wound, each stroke plunging into his skin, his fabric (torn and flimsy, threads undone). He loses reality a she pulls and pushes. So caught in the endless riptide of pain to remember why he’s here, where he’s come from, what he’d been before.

Somewhere through the tapestry of pain that’s exacted upon him, he pulls to the surface just barely, finds just enough of his voice to speak.

“Cor.” It’s surrendered through his clenched teeth. Low, barely a whisper. “My name’s Cor.”

The strange woman doesn’t halt her inflictions, but she chuckles darkly. “Ok. Cor.”

More pain. And Cor almost passes out, but he hears her reply. “I’m Sigrid. I won’t let you die, Cor.”

The boy doesn’t know why, but he felt like he had to give her that. His name. Something to give proof, maybe. That he’s here. That he’s lived this. Is still living.

(His life might not be entirely his own anymore, and he doesn’t want to forget the reason why his namesake hurts so much to speak aloud… but he’s got to be called something. How else will the voice reach him?”)

Cor lets himself slip into darkness, but it’s not the darkness he fears. Not the permanent kind. So he feels just a little bit ok.

And Sigrid’s hands might not brush his own like Regis’s had, that day he drowned, but they’re gentle enough. 


	3. Chapter 3

_The first time Cor attempts to use the King’s magic is a lesson in… well, misery._

_Lined up in a row of other fresh recruits, Cor remembers feeling somewhat confident after the teen ahead of him managed a semi-successful jump across the training room floor._

_His turn is not so lucky; the boy, only twelve at the time, steps forward, channels the inner force that the instructor had coached them all through (with only half a mind on the figure of the King residing in the corner of the room)._

_He closes his eyes, breathes deeply. Attempts the warp._

_There’s something about magic, he realizes. Something so utterly…_ unnatural _._

_Cor doesn’t remember what happens, just a jolting shift in the fabric of his whole reality, falling on his knees hard, then onto his back, arching with a current that isn’t of this world. It’s so…_ wrong _; he wants to shed his skin just so he doesn’t have to feel the alien nature creeping up his arms, his legs._

_There are hands on his chest, nervous voices. Then he turns to his side, vomits onto the mat. Shaking still. Caught in a minor seizure._

_“Hey, call a medic!”_

_Cor can’t quite bring himself out of the spell, so distracted by the foreign taste at the back of his throat, like the air of another exhaling through his lungs, backwards breathing._

_“Get Leonis to medical. He had one hell of a bad reaction.”_

_He’s lifted onto his feet, still trembling. Still choking on that horrible, alien taste in his mouth._

_It’s not til he’s marched out, past the recruits, past the corner, that he catches scent of the King and realizes whose life-spark was caught in his own throat, whose air he’d stolen._

_He ignores the appraising look that Mors gives him as he’s shuffled along to medical._

When next he wakes, Cor hears erratic crackling, feels a steady warmth at his side. The light behind his eyelids casts honey-glowed illusions through his half-consciousness, but it’s enough to bring him back.

Cor’s eyes flicker. He pushes his head, shuffling it on the thin blanket. It’s not comfortable in the slightest, and he knows it’ll bite him if he tries to move much. His mouth is so dry; _gods_ , his tongue combs the inside of his teeth and he has a hard time swallowing the sourness, so he coughs roughly instead.

The resulting twitch in his abdomen sends him recoiling at the ache; a sudden tug on the wound at his side. He’d not forgotten, no. Just was trying to delay the return of pain.

It’s at this moment that he realizes he’d been stripped of his sweater, his warm jacket. And kicking his legs a bit tells him his pants are missing too. Another measly blanket had apparently been tossed over him as he slept, but still; he feels terribly exposed.

Cor slips a hand under the blanket, feeling up his chest. Hard, tense muscles, and a strip of bandages along his torso. He pulls the fabric down, propping his head as best as he can. There’s a line of gauze along his side. Running his fingers across it evokes an itchy stinging. His hands continue; there’s a collection of bruises across his right side that he hadn’t really registered before. Attempting to adjust his pose a bit warns of something misaligned in his ribs.

He just flops back, head banging slightly too hard on the wood surface, breathing out long and slow.

“Couldn’t get the bullet outta your leg, I’m afraid.”

Cor nearly jumps out of his skin, has to take more than a second to recover from the wrench in his wound at the motion.

The woman, _Sigrid_ he remembers, stands leaning on the wooden corner beam, behind her the fire that had warmed Cor as he slept. She holds a cup of something steaming, sips it as she eyes him warily. She looks tired. The boy feels a bit guilty. Doesn’t know why.

“And that wound on your chest might’ve nicked a kidney, but I think I got it stabilized.” She continues, still holding him in that cagey look.

“I’ll be fine.” Cor rasps. After all, he’d survived worse.

“Still,” Sigrid takes another sip of her drink. “Might take some time to get back on your feet.”

 _And get the hell out of here_ , she doesn’t say. But Cor isn’t planning on overstaying his welcome anyway. 

He makes an attempt to climb to a sitting position. Something about laying there, supine, with the Nif woman’s daunting form looming above sends him on edge. He makes it about halfway before there’s a sick twist along his side, skin stretching inwards and sending a lash of fire through his core. He snaps back, so surprised at the intensity.

“Easy, kid. Don’t go fucking ripping out my hard work now.”

He’s reeling still, but feels Sigrid get closer. Senses the shadow of her hands, hesitant, along his torso.

“Mnggh… aaughh…” Yeah, he’d need a minute or two.

“Just be still. Goddammit. Don’t need you bleeding all over my floor again.”

Cor settles back, still spasming as the shockwaves course through him. _Gods_ , it hurts. And his leg is starting to act up too. He’d nearly forgotten; Sigrid said the bullet was still there. He just grits his teeth. Feels stupid as an errant tear streaks out of his eye, down his face.

“Water,” he croaks, turning his head to face her. Sigrid nods, places her mug on the floor next to him as she disappears into another room, returns quickly with a filled glass.

“Easy,” her tone is a steady as her hand. “Don’t move up too much, I can help.”

With that she guides the water to his lips and Cor has to hold himself back enough so that he doesn’t swallow the whole thing in one go.

“ _Fuck_.” He whispers carelessly as he settles back down, feeling the cold water travel down his throat, his chest. He scrubs a hand along the corner of his eyes.

Sigrid settles in a sitting position at his side, legs folded, and begins to shift the blanket around his leg to get a better look at the injury.

“Yeah. Bullet was too close to the artery. Figured I’d just leave it be. See what happens.”

Cor doesn’t feel particularly good about having a foreign object lodged in his flesh, but he supposes things could be worse. What itches his concern more is Sigrid herself; did he trust this strange woman to handle his body properly? What if she was trying to kill him slowly?

“Why are you helping me anyway?” The boy realizes he might as well just ask outright.

Sigrid huffs as she probes his thigh. Cor winces. “Didn’t feel right leaving you lying there. It’s my property after all.”

“Why d’you live out here in the middle of nowhere?” Something about the heat of the fire, the warmth of the room leaves Cor feeling looser. The questions come out without much resistance.

“I’m a hunter. With my family.” She takes a pause. “Before… they left.”

“Left where?”

“You ask too many questions Sleepless boy.” Sigrid tugs his bandage a bit harshly, but she smirks.

“I’m surprised you don’t have more questions for me.” Cor says.

“That would compromise my hospitality, no? And it’s been so nice having company.” She’s being facetious, but Cor can’t help but detect a bit of sadness underneath.

The boy scratches his fingers through his hair, drags a hand down his face. He feels exhausted, disgusting. And the throbbing in his thigh is a nasty distraction.

“You have no reason to be here, really. Any questions I have would just lead to unsatisfactory answers.” Sigrid finishes inspecting his leg, covers it back with the blanket.

“Not curious about why some Lucian brat’s skulking around your territory, huh?” Cor should just stop talking. But he feels that silence would make the whole situation a lot… heavier. 

“Probably some high-stakes scouting mission. To make you feel very important, very useful, yes? The Old King is yet one year gone, what fancies does your new one imagine, sending a boy out here in the snow? If you’re looking for secrets, you won’t get them from me.”

“You’ve given me more than enough already.” It’s as close to a _thank you_ as Cor will allow himself. There’s not palpable hostility between the two, but Cor is still very much aware that he’s not meant to be here.

“We’re probably alike. I’m a hunter as I said. I know how to kill things.” Not quite a threat.

“And I know how to survive.”

“Hmph,” Sigrid sips from her mug again, narrowing on his face, then slants her gaze lower. 

The blanket had shifted, and suddenly Cor finds himself very self-conscious about his half-naked state (thankfully his shorts remained, otherwise he’d be beyond mortified). He knows his body is a testament to his namesake; immortal didn’t mean untouchable.

Blinking into the light again, the boy catches the Nif woman eyeing his marks, his history in scars.

“You like playing with pain, Sleepless boy?” Her accent makes the words sound almost mocking.

“Comes with the job description.”

“Hmph. Some might call you very brave. Or stupid.”

“Probably that one.”

A light chuckle.

Sigrid lifts up the blanket, covering him once more; as if that was enough to pretend the scars weren’t there anymore. If only.

“You do this for your country, your King, huh?” her voice is less playful now. “You gift him your body, a soldier yes? Does the fact that you have many marks as opposed to very little mean you are a better soldier? Or worse?”

“It might just mean I’m very stupid.”

“Probably that one,” Sigrid smirks, but there’s little humor remaining.

(A flash; the Blademaster’s swinging sword; blood dripping in his eyes; that tugging, urgent spark of magic, a voice in the back of his head _leave leave, leave and live you fool_ ; yes, he’d been very stupid.)

“You’d give this all for your King, yes? Your body, your life. What is there in return?” Sigrid drinks deeply from her mug, fiddles with the fabric of the blanket.

Cor doesn’t answer right away and she just presses on “Your country was built on stolen magic. Not stolen from your gods, no. But stolen from you, the people.”

A very Nifeli sentiment. And maybe not entirely untrue, but Cor starts to tense, biting his lip again to keep grounded.

“What has your King given you then? To give your body to his service? To come here, prowl through the snow, gather bits of useless intel to satisfy his curiosities? Not his magic, no. That is for the King alone, not the bodies that serve him.” 

“He's given more than you know,” Cor almost whispers.

“All I know is what I see before me. And I know what your country instills in boys like you. Young. Soldier boys. Giving everything. Getting nothing in return. It’s the same here in Niflhem, yes. But there’s no false promises. When only the King gets a taste of the magic, you might find yourself imagining the flavor. But rest assured, it’ll be the blood in your mouth that’ll feed you first.”

“Careful,” Cor growls. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A hint of that spark; alien, true. But also his. He pushes it back down his throat with his growing anger. 

“Ah, yes. When selfish men hold everything its hard to realize when you’ve been deprived. Old Mors may have earned his penance, buried under the weight of too much power. We’ll see what young Regis incurs. Don’t count on him to view your many marks as anything other than a means to an end.”

“Don’t.” The boy’s voice is deep, low. His teeth still clenched tightly in his mouth. “You know nothing of what Regis has given me.”

That seems to take Sigrid aback. She still glares with those penetrating eyes. But a shaded softness captures her expression. Almost like… sorrow, grief, _understanding_.

“I don’t know your story, _Cor_. But I know that _almost nineteen_ is far too young to weave the tale that’s written in your skin. But maybe your gods and your King have more to inscribe.”

Cor just closes his eyes, hates the way his name sounds on her tongue, but tries to subside. “Maybe so.”

“I’ll treat your wounds best as I can.” He believes her. Still doesn’t make him feel ok.

He lays there a long time, he thinks. Still feeling the Nif’s shadow at his side, watching over.

Cor’s halfway to sleep again when he murmurs “He taught me how to swim.”

“Hm?” Sigrid’s voice already sounds far away.

“You asked what my King has given me. He taught me how to swim.”

With that Cor dives back into the depths of sleep, dark, black. But not empty. Never empty. As long as that spark is still there. The one that calls to him now _you’ll be ok, I promise, I’ve got you kid..._


	4. Chapter 4

_“Hey, Cor?”_

_The words are as quiet as the speaker tries to make them. Still makes Cor’s head pulse._

_“Mmm.”_

_“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t know.”_

_“Not your fault.” The boy’s voice is muffled by the pillow he’s got his face pushed into._

_“Hey Cor…?” Regis hovers nervously in the dark room. Cor knows he’s probably fidgeting his hands about, casting him that look he hates. “You ok?”_

_“In a bit maybe.” Cor mumbles._

_Regis moves. There’s a dip on the couch and the boy can almost taste the guilt coming off the young Prince._

_“Not your fault.”_

_“Yes. Well I’d heard of your bad reaction to magic… I just didn’t think… that is to say… I-”_

_“Regis.” It’s rare that Cor uses the Prince’s given name. Doesn’t sit well on his tongue. Like that lingering, disgusting aftertaste of magic that nearly chokes him still. “Think I’m gonna be sick…”_

_“Oh. I… uh… do you need me to help-”_

_Cor doesn’t wait for his assistance. He slides of the couch, rushes forward towards the desk in the corner of the room. Crashes to his knees and is violently sick in the trash bin he knows Regis keeps there._

_The Prince is on standby, flitting up out of his seat, pacing it seems, not quite sure what to do. “Cor? Are you…_ shit _…are you ok?”_

_“Gimme… a minute.” Cor’s form wracks hard. He heaves again and again, gasping in between. It’s brutal on his body, and he can barely keep himself up by the time he thinks he’s finished. But then there’s a hand on his back, rubbing circles, pulling him up to his feet._

_“Here. Lay down again. Gods, I’m so sorry.”_

_Cor lets Regis coax him into sipping a glass of cold water, lays down on the couch with his head in the Prince’s lap. He really can’t object at this point._

_“Just… don’t do it again.” The boy croaks, as gentle fingers start to comb his hair._

_“I sincerely promise. I won’t. I had no idea you would react that poorly.” Regis is using his worried voice._

_“Magic ‘n me… don’t seem to get along…”_

_“Well I’ve gathered as much now. I truly am sorry.”_

_Cor tenses. Doesn’t want to hear those words from Regis despite the numerous occasions the Prince has seen fit to inflict them. It really wasn’t his fault anyway. Just a harmless play in training. They’d been sparring, one on one. Regis had always been taught to use every skill in his arsenal. Cor didn’t blame him when the young Prince attempted to take the boy off-guard by pulling him along into a warp across the training room._

_His reaction was… well Cor’s track record with magic speaks for itself. After collapsing prone on the floor, presumably caught in a violent seizure, his memory’s still a bit fractured. All he can remember clearly is strong hands holding him down, panic-laced words calling his name. And then finding his way to one of Regis’s private offices._

_“I wonder why that is…” Regis continues stroking along his scalp. It’s nice, Cor thinks. “Why you reject magic so… forcefully.”_

_The boy just makes a ‘I don’t know sound’, closes his eyes, breathes slowly. The Prince had dimmed the lights, but he still feels a pulsing throb when he moves his head too much. Thankfully his hands had stopped shaking a bit ago._

_“It’s just curious. What does it feel like?”_

_“S’like an intrusion. Just wanna get rid of it, y’know. Like it’s wrong. Not mine. Not part of me…”_

_There’s a pause as Cor stretches a bit on the couch, digs his head deeper into Regis’s lap. Groans softly._

_“Feels like_ you _… maybe. I don’t know. It’s just… not me.”_

_They lapse into silence again. The young Prince holding him still._

_“You’re probably just too stubborn.” It’s said with a chuckle and Cor feels his whole body move with it, but this time, he doesn’t mind._

Cor’s been spending close to an hour trying to work his way into calling aloud for Sigrid’s aid. An echo of the voice in his head (yeah, he’s fucking stubborn; he knows).

She’d fed him some point after their tense discussion. Small sips of some warm broth. Cor had lapsed into sleep a bit, but had woken with that telltale urge that he’d been trying to suppress for the last hour.

Finally, he yields. “ _Hey_.”

His voice is a bark, cutting through the crackling fire in the room. He hadn’t noticed Sigrid’s departure, doesn’t know where she is now, but hopes his cry for help is heard.

It is; Sigrid appears a minute later, presumably from one of the other rooms in the house (from what Cor surmised, she’d just thrown him on the floor of the entry hallway).

“What?” As hospitable as ever.

“I need to pee.” Yeah, he wasn’t gonna bullshit either.

She huffs indignantly “And?”

“I…” Fucking hell he hates this so much. “I can’t… get up.” With what little energy he’d used to prop his head off the floor, the surge of humiliation almost lifts him further, just so he doesn’t have to feel quite so pathetic. Still; he’s leaning on his elbows, scowling at the Nif woman above him, torso clenched for the inbound pain he knows he’ll have to suffer. Yeah, he’s not in the best position.

“Fine,” Sigrid growls, comes forward and props her arms under his. “But this is only so you don’t go pissing on my floor.”

Cor braces. It’s pretty much as expected; Sigrid uses her considerable strength to do most of the hauling. The stab wound on his chest sends splintering sparks up his side, and every twist of his body makes him want to scream aloud. But he’s on his feet. Leaning heavily on the Nif woman.

“Bathroom’s this way,” she leads him past the hall that had been his resting place for how many hours, towards another corridor. Cor’s pretty dazed, but he manages to case the house as best he can. It’s pretty sparse. There’s an open doorway that they pass, and he cranes his head, trying to get a better look, when Sigrid almost shoves him out of sight. “Your recon mission’s over, Sleepless boy. Keep moving.”

Not so easily done, that. Cor has to shrug off most of his stubborn pride to practically cling to the woman. Now that he’s standing, the boy becomes excruciatingly aware of the bullet wound in his thigh. Each step feels like he’s driving a screw deeper and deeper into the meat of his leg. Godsdammit. Being aware that the thing’s still inside him makes it almost like he can feel it slipping and sliding under his flesh with each tug of the skin. He’s thankful Sigrid has a small house.

The bathroom is easily approached and he has to practically peel himself off the Nif woman, who’s now giving him such a stony glare he almost just loses the contents of his bladder on the spot.

Privacy is granted, thankfully. And Cor finds himself limping into the room, and when the door is shut he just… _breathes_. Deep. Long. Eyes closed and trying to clear his mind. Just for a second. His bladder doesn’t thank him. Finding the toilet, he does his business without toppling backwards. His pride can give him that at least.

There’s a small amount of blood in his urine. He’s not too worried about it though. His kidneys are pretty resilient. 

Supposing now’s a better time than any, Cor decides he’d better give himself a once-over. Something he always dreads, post-injury. But he’s here now, in relative safety and privacy.

He moves towards the sink, the small mirror above it now showcasing his gaunt reflection. Oh yeah, that’s what he looked like. He disregards his face for the most part; the faint trace of stubble along his jaw just makes him look wearier, in shadow. His hair is filthy; tossed in haphazard angles, greasy with sweat. There’s a blush along his cheeks too and he realizes that he feels quite hot, despite being almost naked.

Cor fiddles with the faucet, sticks his head under, mindful of the three toothbrushes stacked along the rim. He holds his head under the stream despite his instinct to flinch. Fills his mouth with water and swishes it around. It’s cold. Icy. But it seems to soothe the heat that radiates from his skin.

Something about that almost concerns him more than the blood in his piss; he knows the signs of fever. He’d just assumed he was walking unsteady from the wounds, but now he feels the sway in his limbs. The crawling achiness that makes his body feel ten times heavier. _Shit_.

He’d worry about it later; now he just shakes the water out of his eyes, slicks his hair back a bit. Then glances down at his chest, eyes narrowing on the gauze wrapped around his middle. Peeling it back a bit, Cor gets his first look at the injury sight since he’d pulled the knife out. There’s slight redness around the skin. The slash is shorter than he’d thought (at the time it felt like his whole chest had been ripped in half), but no, it’s about five inches all across. The stitches that Sigrid had done are surprisingly neat. No blood leaks out, so he thinks he feels ok about it.

After slipping the gauze back in place, Cor takes just a tiny second to wrap his arms around his bare chest, head bowed (if ever he were to pray, it would look something like this; a self-inflicted protective embrace). He breathes out shakily, hates the sticky heat that he feels rising from his skin.

But he’s ok. For now.

Next, his leg. Without having realized it, Cor had grown strikingly tall in the last year or so. His long legs stretched below him now seem to have trouble carrying his weight though. The left one he keeps rigid, barely any pressure on the tile floor. He braces an arm on the sink.

Bending slightly, chest injury pulling viciously, he starts to unwrap the bandages circling his upper thigh. He has to put nearly all his weight on the other leg and his arm, and a sudden flash of dizziness nearly sends him to the floor. But he manages to right himself as the bindings come loose.

His leg is… well it doesn’t look as promising as the stab wound. The entry sight of the bullet is unmistakable. Red, puffy, angry. Slight veiny tendrils snaking from the hole. The stitches holding it together more a decoration.

Cor, in all his rampant stupidity, decides to poke at it. A shockwave of pin-point fire explodes from the source. His head knocks back at the intensity, he barely grabs the counter of the sink as his leg collapses.

Yeah. He didn’t know what he expected.

Panting harshly now, sweat dripping down his face, maybe tears too, the boy starts to re-wrap the wound. He’s trying very hard to keep himself upright, almost as hard as he’s trying to ignore the pulsing throbs, the signs of inflamed skin, the slight pus leaking from the stiches. He sticks his head under the sink when he’s done, just to cool off again.

Both hands slicking his hair back once more, he detaches from the sink and limps towards the door. He doesn’t know if Sigrid had been waiting for him to finish, and now he’s self-conscious of the amount of time it took him to finish such a simple task. 

She’s leaning against the wall of the corridor, further down, when Cor pokes his head out of the bathroom.

“Glad you didn’t ask me to hold your hand,” she mutters. “Need me to walk you back?”

Cor shakes his head. Another wave of vertigo makes him regret it. “I can manage.”

Sigrid nods. She moves out of the hall, where they’d come from, and Cor follows. He has to keep a steady hand on the wall, but he doesn’t collapse.

He finds the ruffled blankets on the floor that had been his bed since his arrival and he slowly settles himself back down. He’s… beyond exhausted from such a short trip. And the vibrating twinges of nerve pain up his whole body don’t inspire comfort. He’s shaking slightly, he realizes. Limbs twitching as he folds down. When he’s laying again, Cor takes his hands and pushes the palms into his eyes; dark for a moment, there’s echoing heartbeats in time with his aching, and his forehead is far too hot for him to ignore. 

“I need to step out for a bit.” The voice cuts through his haze. “Gotta check on some things.”

“Mm… ‘k.” Cor can’t really come up with anything better to say. He still has his eyes covered.

“I’ll leave you some food if you like. Try to just… rest, I guess.” Sigrid says.

“Not much else to do.”

“Yeah.”

An awkward silence.

“Anyway. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Ok.”

Cor doesn’t hear her leave. Palms still pressed to his beating head.

He lays there a long time, probably.

Crawling, biting paranoia consumes him. Cor knows he should probably just try to fall asleep, but something keeps him conscious. He kicks his legs around the blanket, doesn’t want the wool touching him, he thinks. His body’s got some intangible itch, and he has half a mind to start thrashing just to see if it goes away.

It doesn’t; he’s left with stinging splinters of pain, head now looking for anything to provide a distraction.

He’s on his feet again before he can really help himself.

Sigrid’s house is cold now that the fire’s dimmed, but still, Cor feels desperately hot. There’s sweat pooling along his collarbone and he has to focus hard to stop his hand from shaking enough to wipe it away.

He sways, fragile, shivering despite his inner warmth.

Cor doesn’t know quite what he’s doing, but his wobbly legs carry him forward. He nearly crashes into the nearest wall, all his weight now suddenly depending on it. He wipes the sweat from his bare chest. Hopes he doesn’t just slide down onto the floor.

He thinks he’ll just find the bathroom. Yeah, he just needs to cool off, wet his face again. He thinks he can make it there.

In his mounting delirium, the boy starts to regret ever standing in the first place. The bathroom seems impossibly far now. He doesn’t trust his trembling legs to hold him up much longer.

There’s that open door, a few steps to his right. He clings to the doorframe and practically falls into the room, catching himself on what seems to be a nightstand.

Cor takes more than a minute, just blinking stupidly, eyes glazed over. He’s in a bedroom, he realizes, as his surroundings register in his half-fucked brain.

A boy’s room. Medium sized bed, a couple books on a shelf. Something a boy like him would’ve lived in maybe. In another life. He props himself up on the table, is able to find his footing enough to lean against the wall.

Part of him feels somewhat miffed at Sigrid; godsdamn woman threw him on a fucking hardwood floor when there was a perfectly good bed at her disposal. (The rational side of him that’s still somewhat present knows better; this room is still being kept for someone else.)

There’s a jacket thrown over the chair, shoes shucked off and tossed by the bed. A book lay open on the desk. Cor can see layers of dust, carpeting this static scene for some time, if he had to guess.

A picture of some blond kid holding a rifle sits on the nightstand that he’s supporting himself up on.

He feels unexpectedly guilty. For some stupid reason, he wanders over to the bed, can’t help himself as he sits down. The blankets are still in disarray, and he’s mindful to keep them as they are. 

Cor doesn’t know how long he sits there; long enough that he starts hearing that voice again _be safe be safe_ , long enough that his thigh starts to scream at him, enough for him to try to wrench and twist the skin around it trying to release it somehow, long enough for him to realize that’s probably a bad idea.

His face is damp, from more than just sweat. The bathroom, he realizes. Yeah, he needed to shove his head under that sink again. Get rid of this sticky, filthy hotness somehow.

The pain stemming from his leg now is unspeakable. And he keeps contorting his body as if to try to escape from the agony, but its growing. He pinches at the skin around his wound again, frantic. He thinks he might start screaming if he lets himself go.

(He never did well with foreign objects in his system; magic, bullets. His body is his and his alone. That stubbornness might actually kill him.)

There’s only that tingle of it now, the magic, but it keeps his mouth shut, teeth clenched rigid, his last defense. 

Cor stands from the bed, and the world splinters. He’s near-blind, as black spots eat at his vision and white-hot _pain, pain, pain_ eats at his leg. The panic makes him think there’s a threat, so he bolts.

Out of the room, slamming into the doorframe. He holds himself up on the wall shaking. Crying out loud.

He barely hears the sound of a door creaking open, but he calls out again, probably no more than a guttural sound. He’s almost fully sightless now, sliding down the wall, but he keeps himself from falling.

“Hey!” The voice pounds around the heat in his head. “Kid?”

Cor cries again. He doesn’t care about being pathetic. About his godsdamn pride.

“Hey, Cor?”

He forgets it all, for a second (what does it matter when there’s crisp, green eyes blinking into his own, smooth fingers brushing his knuckles, a voice that can reach him under water _I got you I got you, I got you_ …).

“Kid, what the fuck?” It’s a different face than he expects, rushing towards him, alarm in cold eyes.

But Cor can’t seem to feel disappointed as his legs give, and he falls in a dead faint, collapsing on the hardwood floor.


	5. Chapter 5

_“Well it seems to me we’re quite fucked.”_

_“You think?” Cor grumbles. “Help me with these rocks why don’t you?”_

_The Prince sighs, hands on hips. “I think it’s a bit futile. We might have better luck finding a way out if we just follow this river. It must exit the cave somewhere…”_

_“Yeah well if Clarus can help find an opening on the other side here, we might be able to squeeze through.” Cor’s still scrabbling through the fallen rocks, courtesy of the near-cave in that almost collapsed over both of their heads. Thankfully quick instincts and luck found them safe in an open cavern, some kind of underground river cutting deep into a tunnel. Dark. Damp. And with a whining Regis at his heel, no damn fun at all._

_The sound of the rushing river nearly drowns out Cor’s inner thoughts, but the Prince won’t let him slide that easy._

_“This is just typical. I really must go out of my way to find such misfortune…”_

_“Yeah your life is terrible. Help me out here?”_

_“Cor? Why’d you grab me like that anyway? I could’ve handled myself, I’ll have you know!”_

_“It’s my fucking job, now quit standing so close to the water. That ledge doesn’t look stable.”_

_Another indignant huff. “I still think we can just try swimming under this cave, there’s probably a way out through the tunnel…”_

_“Regis.” Cor hate’s how the name still trembles out of his mouth, a taboo. “I can’t...”_

_“Look! There’s a bit of a ledge on the inside. I can see it from here. I could just w-” There’s that second where the Prince nearly suggests the thing they’d both been thinking, but he cuts it short. Pouting a bit._

_“Who would’ve thought searching for lost swords would be so…dreadful?” The Prince just plops down on a larger rock._

_Cor shakes his head at him. “You’re kinda hopeless y’know?”_

_“I guess that’s why I keep you around.” A candid smile, bright green eyes lit, even in the dark cavern._

_Cor allows a small smile of his own._

_But then there’s a distant rumbling sound, and the boy pauses, hand on a stone pulled loose from the cave-in._

_“Think that’s Clarus..?” The tone of Regis’s voice makes them both doubt it._

_The sound amplifies, but it’s coming from the other side; there’s a surge in the river and the cave wall behind it vibrates, cracks._

_“_ Regis _.” Cor doesn’t think his voice has ever sounded so severe. He’s only fourteen, after all. “Go.”_

_The Prince blinks, uncomprehending. There’s a resounding blast, and his eyes flash, terror-filled. There’s just that split-second where he puts out a hand, that last-ditch thought_ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know _._

 _Cor barrels forward into him, but doesn’t reach for his hand, no. He pulls the dagger out of the Prince’s sheath and wrenches it with all his strength to the far end of the tunnel. It clatters on the stone floor just as the back of the cave explodes outward; rocks, rushing water, and a final word on the boy’s lips…_ go _._

_He doesn’t pause to see if Regis follows through with the warp, because in the next second, he’s gone, and then all Cor knows is swept away with the flood that carries him off his feet, smashes him headlong into the river, stones smacking his head, his body and he’s under and its dark dark dark, smashing, thrashing, upside down, and all he can feel is water; wet, cold, all-encompassing, and he realizes his hand’s still outstretched, but there’s no one to hold on to._

There’s something wet on his face now, and Cor cries out loud, trying to pull to the surface.

“Shhh. Hold still. I gotta-”

“No…”

There’s a scorch of liquid agony running up his thigh, through his whole body and Cor feels every muscle clench as he wrenches his head back, screams, raw and desperate. He hears the crack of his skull on hard wood, but he can’t think at all. And he can feel that thing still, a wet damp weight on his head that makes him want to scream louder. He thrashes, and there’s pressure on his arms, his torso, holding him down.

He makes a sound, sobbing, “Please… don’t… _please let me go_.”

“Calm down now. I’m tryna help you, remember?”

Cor can’t remember. But what he can recall is lungs ablaze, a dark cold grasp, wetness, pressure, _sinking_. He shakes his head again. Tries reaching up a quaking hand, pulling at the thing on his head.

“You have a bad fever, kid. I need to cool you down, then get to fixing this leg of yours.”

Deep, low moaning sounds escape him. Cor tries opening his eyes, but his vision is glassy, fractured.

The hands on his bare chest hold him down still. But he can pull out of the fever haze enough to recognize his surroundings, his predicament, his savior.

“Sigrid.” He whispers.

“Yeah. Hold still kid.” She’s as stern as ever, but she wipes at his hot face with something like gentleness and Cor leans in to the touch. Shivers slightly. “I didn’t know this was infected. Not sure but… I probably have to cut you open again, get this bullet outta you. Please just… ahhh fuck… would you try holding still… if you can?”

Cor really doesn’t know if he can. But he nods grimly. There’s that steady pulsing ache, wiring up his limbs, his twitching fingers. He moans again, at the back of his throat, just because it’s all he can seem to do. He’s shaking quite strongly, he realizes. Shivers lashing his form. The hot clutch of fever makes his head spin. But he nods again.

The next few minutes are some of the worst Cor’s experienced; and that’s saying a lot.

Sigrid keeps her knees locking Cor’s leg in place as she carves open the tear in his thigh, but still, Cor’s body revolts; back arching into impossible contortions, limbs writhing, every fiber of his neck pulled taut, stretching, seizing, head rolling on the wood floor trying to do something to comprehend why he’s feeling this. 

At some point the Nif woman had stuffed a rag in his mouth, but Cor’s throat has been long since rendered raw. He chokes screams around the fabric, and later, sobs, broken and barefaced.

Before he can call on that thing that lives inside him (the voice, the flicker of magic, maybe they’re the same after all; and what good could they do him now? A voice to narrate through the obscenity of pain just inflicted upon him? His magic reservoir, that pocket inside him that carries his weapon and that other useless thing? No. He just has himself in this moment. And maybe that’s all he needs…), there’s a cool hand on his head, bringing him back. The dirty rag that he’d torn through with his teeth is pulled from his mouth. And then a cool liquid drips onto his forehead. He leans into it, against his better judgement.

“I’m sorry…”

It takes him a while to realize he’s the one that had spoken it. And to wonder why it is he feels sorry (he is; he’s sorry about too many things to make sense of).

Sigrid brushes his face again, a cool damp towel, a perfect caress, and just _shhh shhh rest now shhh_ pulls him under it again.

“I’m sorry.” He’s not even sure who he’s talking to. But he keeps his hand outstretched, just in case.

_“You stupid kid! You stupid fucking idiot, godsdammit!” Sobbing, nonstop, shaking his whole body along with it. “You fucking listen to me, you don’t fucking let go. I got you now. You’ll be ok, I promise, I’ve got you kid, you’re gonna be ok… you’re not allowed to die. You fucking hear me?”_

_Cor nods dumbly, as he’s inclined to to do. “…’m sorry…”_

Later (he can tell it’s later, cuz his head feels heavier, if that’s possible), Cor tries to turn over on his side. His chest is exposed and he wants to cover it, feeling very cold, unprotected. He cradles his body as much as he can with his arms, curling inward. The angry, fiery source at his thigh aggravates him further. Throughout his dreams there was a constant, gnawing ache; like a thousand biting, crawling creatures chewing at his leg. He feels them still, tries to scratch his limb sideways against the blankets. It just hurts more.

“You awake?”

Cor startles, then cracks his eyes, taking in the huddled woman against the wall.

“I don’t know.” It’s an honest answer.

Sigrid’s got her hands caught up in her hair, holding her up maybe, but she looks close to collapse. “You need medicine.”

“Mmm,” is all Cor can manage before his teeth start clacking in his mouth, shivers overtaking him.

“Town’s an hour out. I’ll try to be quick.” She rubs her fingers into her eyelids, sighing. “Promise you won’t die till I get back.”

“Yeah.”

“Ok.” She gets up, gives him one last look, like she has a thousand things to say, but just places another blanket on top of him; a softer one. Then she leaves.

Cor doesn’t know how long it takes her; but what does it matter? The fever nearly drowns him (and he knows what that feels like); all his dreams find him submerged in dark liquid, gasping, sinking.

There’s a hand that reaches out to him, and he frantically flings himself upward, trying to grab it, but when he does it turns to water, splashing in his face, hot and steaming, and he’s drowning again, a cycle on and on. At some point, that foreign tickle at the back of his throat ignites, and he chokes around magic fire, but still, he swallows water, water and fire now. He’s hot, too hot. The hand that he reaches for now burns his palm, the impression left behind a scorched brand, the Crownsguard crest, he scratches at his hand, scratches at his leg; he’s on fire. Underwater but on fire. He burns, and drowns slowly, over and over and over.

There are hands on his chest again, but he can’t even scream if he wanted to. Just _no no no not again_ in his head, his fever-fucked mind trying to tell him he’s awake.

“Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.”

 _I’m not_ , he tries to say. _I’m drowning. I’m sorry._

“Take these. Please. Yes, swallow. C’mon kid.” He feels something push into his mouth, his throat constricts, and there’s water, real water (he can’t tell the difference anymore) clogging up his windpipe, and he’s choking and he’s back in the dark, and the hands on him now are dragging him down deeper.

“C’mon. God help me. Please kid. Gotta cool you down. Please God…”

Cor doesn’t know what’s happening, just that he’s pulled out of the blankets and he tries to reach for them; he’s cold, so cold. But he’s being dragged along the hard wood, the strong arms now shaking, but a voice still pleading _c’mon kid, please, please I’m sorry_...

And then he’s on a cool surface; he flinches hard, and the sharp splintering in his thigh screams again, and he screams again, probably.

But there’s a rushing sound, more sobbing, and he’s lifted.

And then there’s just…pitch-black, ice cold, cold, cold, shocking water, and he’s submerged chest deep…

And the dark hands take ahold of him, pulling him under.

And he’s drowning all over again. 


	6. Chapter 6

_Perhaps what surprises him most is the weight of it. The water. Water shouldn’t be able to knock him off his feet, catch his breath away, slam his body into rock, but it does._

_Cor can’t swim. He’s known this. Had tried to hide it because he didn’t think it would ever become an issue._

_It’s an issue now._

_The boy desperately kicks his limbs about. There’s no means of telling which way is to the surface; he can’t see, eyes shut, flipping around and around. He has no sense of what he’s supposed to do; it’s all just cold and cruel and black. He feels his head crack against a solid surface, tries to grab it but can’t, already being swept away._

_The weight of the water crushes him._

_Sick, paralyzing panic pulses with every heartbeat he has left. Cor opens his eyes, thinks he might be able to find a light, find anything to help guide him to the top. It’s just black void, and his head whips around too fast to locate anything. He blinks and his eyes sting. The vile grip of terror builds up his throat, his chest is tight already. A vice straining his lungs, he’s running out of time, he knows._

_He wants to scream but knows it’s useless. There’s nothing for him now but just the will of the torrent, slamming his body around until it runs out of breath. He’s close. Cor knows that much._

_He feels cheated somehow. It shouldn’t be this quick for his body to fall apart. The kick of adrenaline that’s kept him alive so far screams at him: do something, do anything. But it’s not enough. His chest sends sharp spikes up his throat, desperate for air. But there is none._

_It’s not quite what he thought it would be, drowning._

_The boy thrashes, resisting in spite of it all, wading through darkness, going nowhere. His chest feels like it might start eating itself soon, he has no oxygen left. It’s almost like hunger, Cor thinks. So when he opens his mouth involuntarily, the water rushing down his throat feels a little substantial, and he swallows. Then doesn’t stop swallowing. He can’t even choke as his throat is filled, an open funnel down into his lungs. It’s like vomiting, but in reverse. Burning in his neck, in his nostrils. He wrenches his head back, eyes wide, starts punching at his clavicle with weak fingers. He’s helpless. And alone. And so, so terrified he can’t even begin to understand it. All Cor can do is float there, open mouthed, gurgling down the icy liquid that will kill him._

_He’d never really thought of the empty spaces he carries inside him until now. Until he starts sinking because they’re filling up. The lungs in his chest weighed down. Heavy. Useless._

_It’s surprisingly quick._

_Cor becomes one with the weight of the water. He doesn’t even feel the burning anymore. The invasion. He’s filled with it. And the darkness is swallowing him whole._

_Yeah. Dying’s not really how he thought it would be. Not that a boy of fourteen would have much idea. But he keeps thinking there should be some warmth drawing him close. Something to reach out to. A light. Guiding him to peace, maybe._

_There’s just darkness._

_And Cor simply shuts his eyes for good, heart halted, sinking deeper…_

_And he’s just… gone._

_Until, he isn’t._

_There’s a weight again. Which is odd, because Cor’s pretty sure he’d just felt… absolutely nothing. But there’s a weight on his chest._

_And then he chokes; violent bursts of coughs erupt from his chest, and with it water. So much water. He thinks this might be the second part of drowning. His eyes are shut, it’s dark, so he may as well still be in the river. But he’d been so sure that that was it... but he’s here now, coughing, gasping, living…_

_No. He’s not dead. And he’s not in the water. And the weight on his chest is warm and makes noise as he shudders around the water coming out of his wrecked throat. That’s when he feels the grip on his arm, shaking him from side to side, and the other hand on the back of his neck, and he can feel his body again, and… gods… he can breathe again._

_And he hears sobbing._

_“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, gods, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry…”_

_Cor lets the weight rock him back and forth. He’s cold, so he shivers, and the grip tightens. The weight on his chest, a head, grinds into his ribcage, sobbing hysterically_ I’m sorry I’m sorry.

_The boy can’t speak, doesn’t even want to open his eyes, afraid he may still be dead._

_But he isn’t. He can feel his heart beating now, a steady rhythm under the weeping head on his chest._

_“I’m sorry. Oh gods. I should’ve grabbed you! I’m so sorry, Cor, I’m so so sorry…”_

_Cor cracks one eye open, but he doesn’t need to see to confirm; the sopping wet black hair, quivering on top of his body, he reaches out a hand to touch it, just to make sure (finally something to hold on to), and the face looks up, eyes so bright and its then that Cor really knows for sure that he’s alive._

_(He may not know_ why _yet; it takes him some time to get it out, Regis won’t look him in the eyes when he mumbles_ you were under for twenty minutes _, and he chalks up the strange feeling that pulses in his veins to coming off of near-death, but when he sits alone by himself later, after they’d gone for the milkshakes, he feels how his breaths seem different, the flavor of air not quite his own, and he never talks about it with Regis, no, but the pocket of magic exists in him now where it hadn’t before and he doesn’t have to meet the Prince’s eye to know what it tastes like…)_

_Now Cor just watches his friend break down in front of him as he’s cradled in his arms. Safe. Protected._

_Regis cups his face in both hands as he draws him closer, desperate almost. Each sob a sacred prayer. “You’re ok now. Fuck. I’ve got you, I promise.”_

_It’s an intimate and terrible moment, but Cor can’t seem to want to ever be released. He coughs again, awful, aching things._

_The Prince just rubs his back, sobbing still. Holding him still._

_“Regis.” Cor is able to croak, but he’s glad he did when the Prince holds his gaze, something like a smile cracking his features. “Think I’m gonna be sick…”_

_It’s all he can think to say, because in the next moment, he’s tilting sideways, spilling out all the water that managed to find its way into his stomach. As he heaves, he can’t help but wonder how stupid it is that humans breathe and eat from the same source. It’s a vicious bout, vomiting up the water, but Cor feels something victorious in it. The pain means he’s alive._

_And Regis holds him through it. And when he’s done, they flop back together, the Prince still shaking on top of him, crying relentlessly. “You stupid kid! You stupid fucking idiot, godsdammit!”_

_Cor just nods. Yeah, he knows. Regis wraps him tighter in his arms, cradling him upwards now, into his own chest. He’s just as soaked, but warmer somehow. Cor just keeps nodding._

_“You fucking listen to me, you don’t fucking let go. I got you now. You’ll be ok, I promise, I’ve got you kid, you’re gonna be ok… you’re not allowed to die. You fucking hear me?”_

_“…’m sorry…”_

_“No, no… I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry…I should’ve… fuck… I should’ve…” Regis loses himself again to hysterics._

_“You’re too damn emotional, y’know?” As he says it, Cor breaks._

_He’s too far gone to care about irony; tears have already made their way down his cheeks, maybe they’d been there the whole time. He wants to stifle the sob in his throat, save his dignity somehow, but like the water that had drowned him, it bursts from him, and then he can’t stop._

_Regis rocks him as he cries, harder then he’d probably ever done before. He should feel embarrassed about the way he’s got his sobbing face digging into the Prince’s coat, leaking tears and snot and shit all over the fancy material, but he can’t stop. He just grips the jacket, pulling closer, continuing to issue the ugly, broken noises that escape from his tender throat (his dirge maybe; he’d died after all)._

_All he knows is the Prince’s hands are warm and he doesn’t think he ever wants to leave this moment._

_(They do, eventually; it’s only a few minutes until Clarus finds them, two sobbing teens, clutching each other for dear-life, now bonded in more ways than one, and the Shield takes them both in his large arms, enveloping them further, and Cor doesn’t let himself think it, no, but if he did, he’d say that the new impression buzzing under his skin, that spark of magic that he won’t even acknowledge yet, feels a little something like_ love _.)_

He’s alive… again.

And… sitting in water. Cor would think it’s funny, how many times he’s been in situations like this, but he’s too busy trying to regain his faculties.

All he can tell is he’s cold, sore, tired… and alive.

And there’s sobbing. Again.

A soft, hushed thing. Barely perceptible, but Cor’s noticed his sense of hearing is always quicker on the uptake then the rest of his mind. 

There’s mumbling, maybe some words in a language he doesn’t understand but he hears repeated phrases _please God, forgive me, please don’t die... please…Sven… I’m sorry Sven…._

Cor gains enough back to know he’s not Sven, and things start sinking into place.

He doesn’t bother opening his eyes before he tersely whispers out “I’m not dead yet.”

A quick huff, and the sobbing is cut off. It’s then that Cor feels the pressure at the base of his neck. He creaks it sideways, eyes cracking to barely a sliver. Sigrid’s hard face greets him. She’s got her hand gripped into the short hairs on the back of his head, propping him up to keep from sliding further down the tub. 

“You said you wouldn’t let me die,” Cor says, voice low and dark. “I trust that much.”

She nods. Carelessly wipes at the tears running from her icy eyes.

“I may be stupid, but I’m good at staying alive.” Yeah. That about sums Cor up.

She almost gives a chuckle. “Your fever was too high. Had to cool you down. I thought that… it was close.”

With that, the boy just groans. Sinking a bit further into the cold water. He’s pretty much numb, so he doesn’t feel the frosty biting anymore. Something about just lying in the tub, water lapping up to his chest, is… calming, maybe? His long legs don’t quite fit in the small space, so he pulls them closer to his chest, sighs deeply. It’s the floating, the weightlessness (a flash of memory, hands holding his, pulling him out slowly into chlorine-scented water). Cor smiles. But feels tears forming, even so.

Then he cracks.

“Sometimes I feel… guilty. For surviving.”

His voice moves without him really meaning to. “Maybe that’s why… maybe it’s why I keep… running. Fighting. I don’t want to stop and… think about it. What it’s cost me, and what it’s cost everyone… he-”

A lump forms in Cor’s throat and he has to close his eyes a long time, not really wanting to look at Sigrid. This isn’t for her, after all.

“He’s given me so much. Too much. I can’t… sometimes I just can’t… like, bear to look at him. Maybe that’s why. I’m running away from it all I guess. From…him. I’m… gods, I’ve done some stupid shit. I thought that maybe if I… if I pushed harder, if I tried harder… that maybe… that it all means more or something. That my life is… worthy. It’s stupid… it’s fucking stupid…I… gods… I just don’t want it to go to waste… I don’t know…”

Sigrid bows her head slightly, still clutching his hair.

“It… scares me so much. Thinking that… that I’m so kind of… legacy… or something. That I… _mean_ something. I don’t want to let him down. I really… I really do want to prove myself, but I… sometimes I just-” the lump expands, consumes his pride. He trembles around the sob, letting it shape all his words, hands digging into his eyelids, tears falling freely. “Sometimes I forget… that I’m just some… just a fucking kid. I can’t… I can’t always be a soldier, y’know… it’s… fuck… it’s too much for me sometimes. I’m fucking good at it… and… gods… sometimes that scares me more. I don’t want to lose… I don’t know, I don’t want to lose it… _me_ …. I’m really not immortal, I know… and I don’t want to be… cuz it’s just too much… I can’t… I’m just… fuck… I’m just fucking… stupid… I’m so fucking stupid…”

Cor sits there. In the bathtub of a stranger. In Niflheim. And he lets his heart crack open, spilling out more than he’d ever understood. And he still doesn’t. Maybe he never will. Regardless, he tells the Nif woman secrets about a fourteen year old soldier, a Prince with too much emotion, of magic and what it feels like, and how he never thinks the guilt will ever go away. 

Sigrid doesn’t ridicule him. In fact, she just keeps holding up, fingers almost rubbing small circles into the base of his neck, leans over to switch the tap, making the water warmer, and he feels so grateful he just cries a bit harder.

She talks too. Eventually. After Cor’d sobbed out his secrets, she liberates some of her own. It’s give and take, really.

She tells him about the “vanishing disease”. How Imperial citizens had been disappearing for years, never to be seen again. How some people claim the Empire’s taken them to be a new brand of solider, but others think they’re just being experimented on. She doesn’t mention her family. Doesn’t have to.

And Cor doesn’t ask, but he sees the raw anger in everything she does now, her cold demeanor just a prison, keeping her from falling apart maybe. (There’s things he hadn’t seen: the way she looks at him, his age, and how she hates herself so much for it, for comparing the two; how she hates herself for being here with this strange boy, instead of scouring the forest, her daily and nightly routine; she hates how in that moment, when she’d seen the body, covered in blood (hope is such an evil thing really), how she’d wished that it was just dead when she’d turned it over, face unfamiliar, how she still kind of wishes he was dead, just so she doesn’t have to look at him and feel that cruel comparison that nearly drove her to dip his head under the water, merciful at least, he’d been so close to death, but she couldn’t, and she can’t now, not when he’s young and afraid and broken and stupid. She’s a mother, after all)

After; Sigrid helps lift Cor from the bathtub.

He’s shaking still, but the warm water had done wonders to ease him. She wraps him in a towel, guides him down the hall, back to the blanket pile on the floor. But she halts suddenly, Cor leaning into her. Then she turns him towards the room, the boy’s room, and Cor doesn’t protest as he’s ushered under blankets, dusty, but warm, and he doesn’t let his eyes linger on her face for the sake of privacy and respect.

But he does whisper “thank you” and he means it. And Sigrid nods and hates herself for it, but she isn’t sorry.

And Cor falls asleep in a borrowed bed.

Falling into the darkness once more.

But not alone.

Never alone.

_(There’s things he hadn’t seen: how after seeing his friend be swept away by the flood, Regis dove in after him, how he’d searched the dark waters, being carried along too fast to find him, how he’d wept in the dark every time he broke the surface, panicked and so guilt-ridden, how he’d discovered the body, twenty minutes too late, how he pulled the corpse up, dragged it onto the stone outside the cave, daylight once more, finally, how he’d screamed, cried, pounded at the chest of his youngest friend, how he’d pleaded with every god he’d heard of_ it’s not fair it’s not fucking fair _, how he sat there, too young himself really, too inexperienced to figure out what to do, and how he froze when it struck him, stock-still, that glimmer of hope blooming in his heart, how he bent down, head pressed to the boy’s still chest, and he let a part of himself bleed into him, willing, and uncomprehending, how a part of his soul bled away with it, magic-tainted, years off his own life maybe, but it doesn’t matter, no, all that matters is that in the next second, Cor’s heart beats again and Regis cries harder and doesn’t let him go. No he won’t ever let him go.)_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the end of this one. Once again I continue to make Cor suffer (it's only because I love him, I promise)
> 
> I'll be adding a third part to this series, so look out for it :)
> 
> Thanks to all who've read and commented <3

Cor gets better. With time.

He’s not sure how long he lays there, on a stranger’s bed, in a stranger’s home. Maybe long enough that she’s not a stranger anymore.

Sigrid nurses him through the worst of his fever. She doesn’t talk much. Words don’t carry much between them. But he feels more in her touch than words could pronounce. They’ve both exposed themselves now; ugly gaping secrets waiting to be prodded, exploited. But they don’t touch them. Cor doesn’t ask about the missing boy whose bed he recovers in. Sigrid doesn’t ask about the Prince, now King, he’s running away from.

Instead, they just weave around their burdens. Two half-lives in perpetuity.

And when his wounds heal, now just itchiness as opposed to burning, Cor’s not sure he has words for who he thinks Sigrid really is. Rather, he thinks the impression they’ve both left on each other is more of a reflection; the words they don’t allow themselves to say, the fear, the anger. They’re alike in more ways than he’d like to admit. 

But he’s grateful. In a way that makes the ever-waiting guilt that he carries with him at all times feel even heavier. 

_(People care about you, you know._ The distant whispering of a prayer, repeated words. Another life-time ago. He’s been running a long time.)

On what’s probably the fifth day of his recuperation, Cor wakes up to find that he’s alone.

Sigrid must be off somewhere in the house, he thinks. He’d registered a few times when she’d left before, sleeping probably. God, he feels the guilt again.

But now. It’s just him.

It’s… quiet. He can hear his heartbeat if he tries to.

Solitude is something Cor thrives in, but for once he feels… lonely. It’s surprising, and disgusting, and he has to sit up in the bed, curling around himself (yes, this is him, this is his body, the one that he has to keep alive, the gift that he doesn’t deserve), before there’s a distant voice in his mind.

Ah. That’s what he was missing.

Cor settles back down on the sheets, lets himself fall into half-sleep as the words echo in his mind _you’re safe here, for now…maybe another day and you can head back to the post…been too long since you checked in… probably worried…._

It’s different from when he was younger. The voice. Not the same one he used to have, back when he was just some dumb kid. Took him a bit to realize it. Maybe only when he’d reached the Tempering Grounds, and his angst-fueled ego did little to take its advice. But he’d heard it call out to him, after he took the first hit to his leg. And he couldn’t ignore it as he kept fighting, until he was fighting for his life and it was the only thing keeping him alive.

He smiles now, despite conjuring up the painful memory. And the chorus of _you_ _stupid fucking kid_ is enough of a lullaby to draw him under once more.

“You need help?”

“No, I… I’m good.”

Cor props himself up on his palms, edging into a sitting position on the mattress. He doesn’t make eye-contact with Sigrid as he launches himself to his feet, but he notices her ready arms at the corner of his vision.

He doesn’t fall.

That’s a relief.

“Think I’m ready to leave.”

“Ok.”

“Yeah…”

Cor thinks if he hangs around Sigrid for much longer, they’ll just resort to monosyllabic grunts soon enough.

He catches her eye, just for the sake of relaying his uncertainty. Cold as ever, but there’s a solid passion behind them that he respects now. And something like warmness creeps in, just for a second, before she looks to the floor.

“I can get you some clothes. To borrow.”

Before even accepting the offer, Sigrid moves past Cor to the dresser inside the room. She grabs a thick-looking sweater, some pants, socks, and she folds them into a nice pile, placing them on the bed, still not looking at him.

“I’ll give you some privacy.”

She leaves. And Cor thinks the privacy is meant for her.

The boy stands there, more steady than he’d been for a while, and he takes in the room around him. During his fever, he’d found himself getting lost in some of the stranger’s possessions; a collection of some Niflheim movies, books, a poster of sports team he’d never heard of. But there was a picture on the desk that kept drawing his gaze; in fact he’d been so sick he thought he might’ve be looking out a window.

A framed photo of a sunset. Maybe taken by the boy himself. Cor doesn’t know. But he stares at it now, moves up closer, arms wrapped around his bare chest, and he closes his eyes, the picture now in his mind’s eye. (He think he gets it, why people pray.)

His finger trails along the dust. 

Cor moves to the pile of clothes. Takes his time getting them on. His chest aches, and he has to pause for at least a minute with half his leg in the pants while he steadies himself, but he manages. They’re a little small (he’s tall now, he knows) but warm. The boy sits back down on the edge of the bed, breathing in the foreign scent of the clothes he’s wearing.

Stranger’s clothes. But maybe belonging to a boy like him. Maybe a boy who’d looked at the sun and saw something beautiful (Cor sees it too; he sees all the reasons he’s been alive so far, all the gifts of mercy he'd been given, this one included. He sees a purpose. And it feels like warm hands brushing his knuckles).

So he sits on the bed of a Nifeli boy, a boy like him, and Cor lets go of something he hadn’t realized had been inside him still. Like a last bit of water, still caught in his chest, still stealing his breath.

He breathes out slowly now; and he tastes it too, that tickle that doesn’t belong to him. But it’s warm and real and it makes him think of eyes so green, so he doesn’t mind it anymore.

Thinking of that boy who drowned and the Prince who saved him, Cor never realized how he’d always played the scene in his head: him, stupid, a kid with nothing to hold on to, but Regis, his savior, a man he’d never be able to repay (but that’s just it; Regis was hardly a man, just as Cor feels he’s hardly a man now. Almost nineteen might as well be enough. He’d let go of it, as Regis had; that last bit of childhood he still keeps in his chest. Stunted, neglected. He doesn’t need it anymore. He could grow better now, he thinks. For himself, for his King. His King who carries the weight of them all, the gift of magic barely a consolation prize. A kid forced to carry the weight of a man. Cor won’t let himself forget the sacrifice). So he just… let’s go of it. And let’s himself become a man, right here, in the bedroom of a boy whose youth had also been stolen.

Cor walks over to the desk again, closes his eyes, breathes. He loves breathing.

He calls to that source inside of him, the one he never lets himself use. There’s a faint flutter in the air, a cool tingle on his fingertips, and he looks down at the object he’d conjured in his hand.

Maybe he’d start using his armory for something useful. He chuckles to himself. _Stubborn bastard_.

Cor takes the figurine in his hand and places it in front of the photograph. The sunset makes a nice backdrop for Duscae Dan, he thinks. A fitting ending.

The man walks over to the door, where he knows there’s a very strong woman leaning against the other side, using everything she has left to keep her pride intact, but he won’t draw attention to it.

He taps the handle, letting her know he’s ready, and when she looks him in the eye again, he’ll nod. Words don’t hold much between the two. And he’ll place a hand on her arm, and she’ll nod too. And he’ll gather himself up, smiling slightly as she presses a small gift in his hand; the bullet from his leg. And he won’t allow himself to ask her what she’ll do next, but as he walks from the home, into the cold, the trek through the forest is peaceful, reverent, and he doesn’t have to wonder what draws her here (there’s more than one way to pray, Cor knows this much).

And when he reaches home once more, a man maybe, he might catch himself staring as the sun goes down, light into darkness once more, but it doesn’t feel like the light is lost. In fact, it burns brighter now, and the boy he once was finds that thing he’d been looking for (the thing to hold on to, it feels like magic, it feels like love. And it glows inside him now. A small mercy. A gift). 

_Two boys stand at the edge, tiles cold on bare feet. The younger groans._

_“C’mon, Cor grab my hands.”_

_“Is this really necessary?”_

_“Yes, you bastard, now come on! The water’s warm, I promise.”_

_“Fine…”_

_The boy lets himself be dragged out, the bottom coming at a level where he could stand. He flinches, still. And the older one laughs before splashing him right in the face._

_“Hey!”_

_“Quit pouting, brat! Not everyone gets a chance to swim in the palace’s private pool, you know!”_

_“Oh I feel so privileged…”_

_“Well, you should!”_

_The younger one huffs again, but smiles slightly._

_“You’re not allowed to make fun of me, yeah?”_

_“I wouldn’t dream of it. Swimming is a necessary skill, Cor. Like public speaking… and crocheting! We’ll get to those later dear…”_

_“Yeah, yeah. Just show me what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing alright?”_

_And he does. The older one guides the younger as they drift out to the deeper end, arms supporting his weight for a bit, until he builds up enough confidence. The trust is there, in the way Regis doesn’t let go, in the way Cor lets himself float on his own, in the palpable bond of magic that will forever bind the two._

_Nonetheless, the two boys barely last a half-hour before they convert their efforts into furiously trying to splash each other in the face. Laughing and yelling with abandon. They’re only kids, after all._


End file.
